His Last Words
by avet
Summary: "The murderer of my parents once told me this; 'there is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it." He stilled, fingers tightening on the flask of a Pepper-Up. He was startled by the sudden revelation, as his savior was usually reserved regarding his past.


**Warning(s):** Slashy themes, unbeta'ed.

 **AN:** I wrote this while listening to Hannibal's version of Aria da Capo by Bach.

* * *

 **His Last Words**

 _And he said, "Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you._

 _Come close to me and unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. "_

 _\- Kahlil Gibran,_ _Death XXVII_

* * *

September 30, 1970 A.D.

The dawn came benedictory, after a long night.

Soft light crept on the meadows, breeze rustled the grass' green blades, and Marvolo Gaunt loathed the peaceful atmosphere with ferocity he never experienced.

It was as if the nature itself, so ancient and terrible, is most unaffected by the passing of one mortal.

But to him, and maybe to hundreds others, today was the worst day one could be awake to.

He dragged himself from his seat, gave an uninterested glance at the state of his room, once he prided himself in it being the most pristine in the whole manor, and decided that he ought to change into something more respectable. He opened the wardrobe and chose a nondescript black robe, underneath he wore a black suit and a white tie, groomed his hair to perfection and summoned his wand from the coffee table and put it in its holster.

The hallways before his bedroom where unnaturally silent, while the Gaunt Manor was by no means raucous, it still had the random sounds of its residents; Eliza's playful harp he usually woke to, Rigel Black's momentarily screeches at being rudely awakened by Elara, Prewett's typical greeting through his unpleasant owl, regularly carrying his niece, Mrs. Weasley's mouthwatering goods.

But today, it was eerily silent. And he was immensely thankful for that.

.

* * *

 ** _Lord Harold James Peverell-Potter Left Us_**

 _By Stephan Orwell_

 _The Wizarding world of Great Britain and beyond wakes today to the most sombre news, and the Daily Prophet is r_ _egretful to be the bearers of the saddest and latest updates regarding Lord Peverell-Potter._

 _As many of our readers know, His Lordship has been ill for many years due to an unfortunate case of the incurable magical disease 'Vas Corruptionem', and on last Tuesday eve, Lord Peverell-Potter was finally relieved from his prolonged suffering._

 _His Lordship's funeral will be held today at the Gaunt Manor in Little Hangelton at afternoon, and t_ _he Prophet's family offers their condolences to His Lordship's kin and the whole Wizarding world._

 _See Lord Peverell-Potter accomplishments and awards over the years pg.2_

 _Lord Peverell-Potter, The Familiar Face In Every Scene: A Biography pg.4_

 _Legacy of House Gaunt, Restored pg.6_

 _The Passing Of The Equality Law pg.9_

 _Vas Corruptionem, the wizarding equivalent of muggle cancer pg.13_

* * *

Rigel hesitantly entered the dinning room, expecting it to be empty, but found it occupied by two persons. He eyed the young woman siting primly on the long mahogany table, face awfully pale and eyes bloodshot, and instantly scolded himself when he almost felt relieved that he wasn't the only when with grief apparent on his person.

Elara gave him a half-hearted smile, and waved at the untouched full breakfast spread on the table, "Tuck in." He almost snorted at the horrible attempt at normalcy, but wisely kept his tongue. A fleeting glance at the head table, perhaps assuming the usual forbidding figure to be already seated, eyes bearing on him disapprovingly for being late, but Rigel expectedly found it vacant.

He bit into the delicious looking bacon and tasted stale instead, so he put it down, wiped his mouth with a napkin and quietly asked, "Lord Gaunt?"

Eliza uncharacteristically sniffed, and he eyed her with horror, _don't cry_ , he almost pleaded, but mercifully she just took a sip of her tea with a grimace and responded. "In the master bedroom," and Rigel silently acknowledged the 'still' hanging there.

And so they sat, the three (uninvited, but accepted) additions to the glamorous Gaunt family, and reminisced.

* * *

 _His Last Words_

* * *

Afternoon came too soon, with Heir Marvolo being the only one decent enough to step out of the manor, and it was then they heard the ominous creek of the master bedroom's door, signaling that the lord of the manor left his private solace.

Thomas Marvolo Gaunt had a forbidding presence, alluring and impossible to ignore, but today he was but a wisp of his usual aura. He walked with uncommon slouch in his gait, as if he simply forced himself out of his abode by sheer will, a grief-filled will, enough to allow him the dignity of not dragging his feet aimless in the vast manor.

And his eyes; typically clear dark brown - almost red - now weary, shrouded ones. As if the Gaunt Lord was trapped in a far away memory, reviving it again and again.

His grasp on his dark cane was loose as he distractedly nodded to his heir, and stepped out to the cheerfully sunlit manor entrance with an air of graceless resignation.

.

* * *

 _"_ _The murderer of my parents once told me this; '_ _there is no good and evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it."_

 _He stilled, hand tightening on the flask of a Pepper-Up. He was startled by the sudden revelation, as his savior was usually reserved regarding his past._

 _He turned to face the figure seated near the hearth, the merrily crackling fire illuminating his face, and his half-lidded emerald eyes gazed at the fire with disquieting detachedness. Thomas silently approached him and sank to his knees in front of his chair, took hold of the wine glass loosely held between pale fingers and replaced it with the potion._

 _"And?" He gazed up at him, silently willing the lovely face to turn to him. Harold blinked, then slowly looked down at him, something unfathomable in his eyes. "And I took his life twice in return…"_

 _Thomas shivered, the usually kindhearted, flawless and gently smiling savior in his memories suddenly enhanced by the newfound darkness reflected on the beloved face._

 _Graceful fingers grasped his chin, and he willingly raised his head to meet the mesmerizing eyes. "But Thomas," Harold began, as his fingers caressed his cheek. "He thought that power was enough to achieve his ends, and while power is a necessary component, it's never enough alone. "_

 _And perhaps Thomas had imagined something unnamed in Harold's eyes when he softly continued, "With no goodness, no morality, he committed the unforgivable. Then perished, robbed of his so-called invincibility, and his ruined soul allowed no entry in the afterlife."_

 _And then they sat, still and unmoving in the darkening room, gazing in each other's eyes, until the fire died down, engulfing the lounge room with complete darkness._

* * *

 _His Last Words_

* * *

Adrian Prewett met Harold thirty years ago, back when the Wizarding world was on the brink of falling into a civil war, the German wizard Grindelwald being the spark to the fire that would have swallowed many witches and wizards, had the bizarrely merry and occasionally cranky Harold Peverell-Potter not stopped him.

Adrian holds the late lord in high regard, as most other wizards do, but the bitter taste of mortality still surprises him in the end. He supposes that he almost fancied the lord to be invincible, as his feats may lead anyone to believe so, even with the terrible illness that plagued him for innumerable years.

But still, even when he glimpsed the Peverell-Potter lord leaning on his once-ward, seemingly a fortnight ago, body whacked with coughs, and white handkerchief stained with dark blood, he merely noticed the thrumming magic swirling around his person, and was blinded by its sheer power so much that he thought that if his body withered then surely his soul would still live on.

Sadly he was mistaken, and not for the first time, as old Harold had this frustrating habit of doing the utterly unexpected.

He stood with his weeping niece Molly in the vast hall, filled to the brim with mourning witches and wizards, and even the stoic traditionalists, known for their disagreements with the late lord are in attendance. And he allowed himself a sardonic smile; even his enemies could not keep themselves from getting drawn to the irresistible, warm-hearted and occasionally mischievous being.

After every attendants paid their respects, said their piece or simply transfigured a lily or a rose and laid it upon the artfully ornamented coffin, Adrian took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and stepped up to say his farewells to his dear friend.

Harold, the smug bastard, still looked good even when lying lifeless in his coffin.

He was politely reminded of the passing time when someone pointedly coughed behind him after he spent what felt like hours simply gazing at his friend's slack face, he resignedly shook his head; even in death Harold still captivated him.

He turned and faced the Gaunt Lord, now looking terribly like his namesake, and found himself pitying the lord.

He's aware of the adoration the lad once, and apparently still, holds for his friend, and knew in that moment that he should perhaps reassure him that it was not completely unrequited. He might withhold the information when his friend was alive, out of respect for his wishes, but now he will do it to reduce the terrible grief in the usually aloof eyes.

"Here," he sighed, tugging a particular memory from his head and stuffing it into a hastily transfigured vial for the sake of Lord Gaunt's sanity, and inwardly cursing his bleeding heart. "A gift for you."

It was later, as he prepared for sleep that it fully downed on him that old, grouchy and possessor of terrible humor Harold passed away, and fortunately his household was sound sleep to not hear his soft keens.

.

* * *

 _"_ _You're fond of him," he dared to point out, eyes tracing the fleeting pain that flashed through Harold's face when his adolescent ward angrily stormed off to Merlin knows where. Harold chuckled despairingly, "Terribly so, Adrian."_

 _"Then why…" He stopped, when Harold shook his head, and gulped down his_ _Firewhisky. "Surely you can see why, I do not wish for him to be tied down to a fading man, Adrian."_

 _"I thought that it was perhaps due to the age difference," Adrian forcibly refused to acknowledge the pervious remark, and Harold eyed him wearily, but did not call him on it. He laid back on his seat and nodded, "That too, my friend. I practically look like his sire when standing near him,"_

 _Harold's eyes refocused, and_ Thomas stilled as they looked right at him _. "The lad's got a bright future ahead of him, and I'm not going to ruin that. He will have to marry a suitable lady, restore his bloodline legacy, spawn a few kids that will torment old grandpa Harold …" A familiar benign smile appeared on his face, emerald eyes twinkled madly, and_ they winked at him. _"But eventually, all will be well."_

Thomas raised his head from the Pensieve, and closed his eyes in dismay.

"No, my dearest, all's not well."

.

.

* * *

 _ **AN:** _ I'm not sorry.

Harry paid the price for going back in time by slowly dying, saved Tom from the orphanage in 1930 after four years of debating whether he should kill him or not. The illness is fake, 'the vessel decay' awfully translated by Google to Latin.


End file.
